


Shape of My Heart

by De Orakle (Delphi)



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Card Games, Drama, M/M, Pining, Songfic, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-01-01
Updated: 1999-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:18:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/De%20Orakle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A songfic set to the Sting song of the same name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shape of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Exact date of publication unknown.

_He deals the cards as a meditation_

Each card is loosed with a caged movement of the wrist. Each card is loosed with a secret. Precise. Exactly twice the beat of his pulse. Steady.

_And those he plays never suspect_

Rough hands. Honest hands. Calloused hands to whom the edges of each card stays silent, tells no story.

_He doesn't play for the money he wins_

All the money in all of his pockets, the clothes on his back, his body. The stakes here are shadows to past wagers.

_He doesn't play for respect_

Carven ice. He can feel them searching for a reflection of his cards. Opaque. They shift uncomfortably. Admiration. Grudging admiration. You cannot respect ice. You can only wait for it to melt.

_He deals the cards to find the answer_

He's seen the New Orleans tarot women and flashed a smile in professional courtesy. Written in the cards, written in the stars.

_The sacred geometry of chance_

Control the cards and they can't control you. Inhale. He uses his breath as camouflage. He palms an ace, third from the bottom of the deck. Lets the cards whisper in their reverent mathematics. Player. Playwright.

_The hidden law of a probable outcome_

Ace of clubs. Ace of spades. Ace of hearts. Jack of diamonds. King of spades. Dealer takes a winning edge.

_The numbers lead a dance_

The blow. The cut. The love. The gambling knave. The dark soldier. Dealer folds.

_I know that the spades are swords of the soldier_

A bet. A parry. Like a sword in his hand. Sharp. Like Nathan's words this morning.

_I know that the clubs are weapons of war_

His own reply had been heavy, blunt. It had left one of them bleeding.

_I know that diamonds mean money for this art_

Ante's up. Up. Maybe more than some can spare. It worries him, not the thought, but that he thinks it. It whispers. A chorus. A voice not his own.

_But that's not the shape of my heart_

One voice. Sharp, the knife's edge. Smooth, the knife's flat. Healing, deadly. Irresistible.

_He may play the Jack of diamonds_

He counts the cards the others hold. He flashes a quick grin, far from a tell, far from genuine. The rogue jostles forward, pushing the lawman back into a dark corner of his mind. Cold.

_He may lay the Queen of spades_

Smooth. Miss Recillos sashays by; he won't turn his head from the cards he holds. He registers though, the tray laden with whiskey, water, and milk. Six glasses.

_He may conceal a king in his hand_

Five. He imagines it was five, like the cards. Five.

_While the memory of it fades_

He won't turn his head.

_And if I told you that I love you_

He won't.

_You'd maybe think there's something wrong_

He'll feel Nathan's eyes on him if he raises. Accusing. Or worse, he won't feel them at all.

_I'm not a man of too many faces_

See your three, raise you two. He should call. Stone. In his mind, he tries to call out the lawman, coax him to the front. Bring him out proudly for Nathan to see.

_The mask I wear is one_

But the rogue hurts so much less. Ice. Carven with a smile.

_Those who speak know nothing_

"Hang on, now, JD..." Nathan. Warm. Not a trace of the disgust he'd heard this morning. His fault. He'd provoked him with the most condescending of comments. He'd just wanted to be seen. Heard. To make Nathan feel something. Anything.

_And find out to their cost_

Anger is passion. Pushing him away, pulling him closer. They both take contact. He doesn't know why it always seems like such a good idea. Afterwards, he's here and Nathan's there.

_Those who curse their luck in too many places_

Money. Family. Peace. His friends' hypocritical acceptance of his gambling skills only allow for one. He's given up hope of the last.

_And those who smile are lost_

The corners of his mouth twitch. Bitter. It's too late.

_I know that the spades are swords of the soldier_

He pushes another chip into the pot, conservative. His gun brushes softly against his arm. Cold. He remembers how he held it last night. Close.

_I know that the clubs are weapons of war_

His last resort. A running dialogue of witty repartee. Disarm.

_I know that diamonds mean money for this art_

He raises. Two opponents gruffly make their excuses. Satisfaction, as much that can bring. He raises again

_But that's not the shape of my heart_

Behind him, his friends have quieted. They're still there.

_That's not the shape of my heart_

They can wait. Wait. He just has to see if he holds a winning hand. He just has to see.


End file.
